


A Good Day to Come Home

by Rivestra



Category: A Good Day to Die Hard (2013), Die Hard (Movies), Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Coming Out, Family, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivestra/pseuds/Rivestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is less disturbing when people are shooting at you. (Jack comes home with John.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Day to Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> I can't say this was my favorite Die Hard movie. I'm not even sure I can say this was my _fourth_ favorite Die Hard movie. What I can say is that getting left out riled up the Matt in my head and this fluff resulted.
> 
> In the very loosest sense possible, this could be considered a sequel to my [Harmless Crank Calls and Other Death Defying Acts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/144631). 
> 
> Much thanks to [SnarkGoddess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkGoddess/pseuds/SnarkGoddess) for the beta.
> 
> Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.

Jack watched John’s boots trudge up the stairs, more disturbed than he would ever admit that they wore the same brand. Instead, Jack embraced the small meanness of his pleasure at how much slower they were moving than his own would be. He couldn't really hold on to it, but he tried. 

God, the old man looked tired. Not that he hadn't earned it.

When they reached the third floor landing, John dropped his bag and fumbled for his keys. In an instinct Jack chose not to analyze, he grabbed the bag up and slung it over his own shoulder. A moment and three deadbolts later (three! Jack really didn't miss the city), John was opening the door and gesturing Jack through.

A moment after that, Jack's nose was hard against the wall. His right arm screamed as it was wrenched painfully up behind his back and someone’s minty fresh breath was hot and unwelcome against his ear.

Trouble didn't just _follow_ his father, it was _fucking obsessed_ with him.

Jack went slack, feeling out the strength of the guy's hold. _Shit._ No way was he getting out. Fucking professionals, _of course._

Jack listened intently for whatever John was going to do. The lack of scuffling behind him was of definite concern--was John already down? He tried to look but got his nose pressed harder into the wall for his trouble. 

_Fuck... fuck... fuck!_ Either John actually was down, or he was at the other end of a gun and about to do something stupid. Russia hadn't really been enough time for Jack to gain a feel for the form that stupid might take. 

The guy holding Jack growled into his ear, “Where the fuck did you hide my passport, McClane?” Great. Another fucking treasure hunt. Wait.. _Passport?_ What the fuck?

Someone barked out a laugh behind him. Familiarity sent a shot of relief through Jack that quickly transformed into a terrible sinking feeling.

“Sorry, I must've left it down at the Department,” John said, not sounding sorry in the least. “When you asked me to copy it, remember?”

Jack cringed.

The guy backed away, giving Jack a shove toward the wall to unbalance him as he did. _Training._ Jack hadn't been wrong.

“Got the wrong McClane there, Matty.”

Matt, John’s buck-fifty-soaking-wet, fucking _hacker_ roommate, had gotten the god-damned drop on him. 

Jack turned to join Matt in glaring at John. Matt deadpanned, “Riiiight... of _course_ you did. _Asshole,”_ just as Jack spat, “You fucking _trained_ this punk?” at John. Jack was disturbed to notice John was paying a lot more attention to the punk in question’s glare than to Jack’s own.

“I couldn't have you following me, kid.” John’s voice was placating and it made Jack want to jump up and down between them--Jack might as well have still been in Russia for all the attention John was paying to him.

“I wasn't planning on following you, old fucking man, I thought I was _going with you!”_ Matt paused long enough for that to spin wildly in Jack’s brain before adding, “Asshole,” almost as an afterthought. _John had considered letting this kid tag along? On a rescue mission?!?_

John put his hands up between them and shook his head slowly. It was like watching a really slow train wreck without really realizing that’s what you were seeing; Jack couldn't tear his eyes away. 

Still placating, John said, “I’m gonna go take a shower. I stink.”

“That’s one for the understatement awards,” Matt muttered, his voice way too loud for it to count as under his breath. 

John stripped off his shirt and threw it into the bedroom ahead of him. No, Jack thought, not a train wreck. This was a storm, pressing intently into his skull... Or maybe it was coming from _inside_ Jack’s brain, spilling outward and filling the room with its insanity. 

After glaring after John for a long moment, Matt turned to Jack and asked, “You guys eat with Lucy?” all polite and host-like. Like he was the one who belonged here, which Jack guessed he was. 

Jack shook his head. “Not since Paris.”

“Pizza?” Matt asked, casual. Like anything about this was normal.

“Sure.” Jack’s hands felt sluggish as he took the menu Matt offered.

Matt said, “Just... don’t order anything he’d like, okay?” and disappeared into John’s bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Their voices were low and muffled by the door, but still managed to remind Jack of nothing so much as John and Holly, back before LA. After an endless moment, Jack reminded himself that he was a fully trained, fully grown, _CIA agent_ and moved to the door to exercise his spycraft. John knew what Jack was--if he wanted privacy, he should have tried harder. (Jack really didn't care what Matt wanted.)

“... invited him to _stay_ here?” Matt was saying. “Were you going to _tell_ him at any point?”

“I think you just did, kid.” John, the bastard, sounded amused.

Jack reminded himself he wasn't going to feel sympathy for Matt.

“And you didn't think to--oh, I don’t know-- _fucking warn me?”_

“I figured Lucy called you.” John paused, and Jack heard movement. “She did call, right?”

“Of course she did-- _she_ has a fucking brain. Why the hell...” Silence for a long beat then, “Jesus, John, you can’t just do that to m...” and Matt cut off abruptly. 

Jack waited. 

It took almost five minutes for the shower to squeak on. Jack backed away from the door and tried not to think. He dug out his cellphone and dialed the number on the menu.

Thirty minutes later, all three of them were cramped around the tiny coffee table eating “California style” pizza. Jack would have happily eaten donkey balls at that point, but even he would have admitted that water chestnuts and pesto were a bad, bad combination if his dad’s face hadn't been so much fun to watch as he tried to choke it down. It almost distracted him from Matt’s wet hair.

Finally, spurred on by Matt’s stubborn refusal to be anything but a gracious host and by too many years of Holly’s training, Jack manned up enough to ask, “So, Matt, since dear old dad here didn't exactly give either of us a warning...” He met Matt’s eyes--if nothing else, they should be able to bond over what an ass John could be. “Are you sure it’s okay if I crash on your couch? I really don’t want to impose, but I also really don’t want to crash on the floor of Lucy’s dorm.”

Matt leaned back into the couch, and Jack was surprised at how relieved he was to see the other man’s guard finally slide down a little. “Nah, it’s fine, but we’ll unearth the spare bed for you.” Matt’s eyes sparkled and John looked immediately suspicious. “Your dad takes up too much of the fucking couch to share.” 

John started to sputter incoherently. Matt didn't seem to notice; Jack figured it wasn't an unusual occurrence. 

Tossing a half eaten slice back into the box, Matt rose. He looked pointedly at Jack, asked, “Wanna go get some real food?” and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Even I can’t eat this shit.” 

Jack rose to join him. John started to, but Matt pushed him back down, announcing, “John will be staying here.”

“Matt...” John whined, managing somehow to make it sound both pathetic and dangerous at the same time. Jack carefully did not look at his father to see what facial expression might accompany such a feat. He just didn't want to know.

Matt was unfazed. “He’s got a bed to find.” Matt pulled on his jacket and tossed Jack’s at him. 

As the door swung shut behind them, John called out, “Don’t think I don’t know you’re responsible for this fucking pizza, Farrell! No son of mine would order this shit.” 

The laughter that kept them company down the stairs was surprisingly easy. Jack decided to keep his focus on that and was glad Matt seemed like the kind of guy he could talk into tequila.

Probably a lot of tequila.


End file.
